


you do a lot of damage when you talk that talk

by headbuttingbears



Category: Demi Lovato (Musician), Jonas Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, F/M, Lapdance, Oral Sex, Pining, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 06:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14443353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headbuttingbears/pseuds/headbuttingbears
Summary: "So is 'Jack Flash' your stripper name now? Isn't it supposed to be first pet + street you grew up on?" "I'll see what I can do about getting it changed during production." | Nick lands a new role, Demi reads up on relationship dynamics, and nobody can help themselves.





	you do a lot of damage when you talk that talk

**Author's Note:**

> Characterization? Reality? I don't know them.
> 
> References Demi/Bella Thorne but nothing remotely serious. Five things fic in disguise.
> 
> Title from JD McPherson's "Shy Boy."

****A week before the album drops, Demi reads an article in _The Atlantic_ about backburnering. Then she reads a bunch of other articles on other websites about the same topic. The real highlight is scrolling down a list of warning signs at 2 a.m., mentally checking things off and dismissing others. It's about as pointless as clicking through webMD for flu-like symptoms and expecting to get any diagnosis besides cancer.

Please welcome to the stage Miss Dying Alone.

> 10: "If we're both still single by the time we're 40, let's get married!"

Okay, but Nick only said it so she'd stop crying. She'd just broken up with Joe after their summer PR fling got too heavy, and she was sobbing and calling herself an unlovable idiot who bought into the narrative, and they were 16. What else was he going to say? He'd already offered to beat up his brother for her. The marriage pact was a movie staple. Plus it worked—she absolutely stopped crying and switched to calling him an idiot instead of herself. So like… that was a friendship move. That was when she knew she wanted to keep him in the divorce.

But the other half of the list is normal stuff like messaging back and forth about mundane things, talking about relationship drama, having a spiritual connection or whatever… that's just friend stuff. Isn't it? Friends shoot the shit. Friends share their insecurities. Friends— _good_ friends—connect. Like soul to soul.

Don't they?

Maybe friends don't go on tour together and write songs about how they've been looking for love in all the wrong places, but… whatever. They're friends. That's all they are. Or are going to be.

"Is this weird? I'm sorry for making everything weird," she says at the album release party.

He actually came, which she… did not expect. She banked on the opposite, actually, had a bet going with herself he wouldn't, but Nick got his Master's in public relations from Disney University. He showed up looking slick just to spite everyone, hugged her, kissed her cheek when she offered it, and said, totally sincerely, _You did such a great job!_ So that was another thing she got wrong.

Not as bad as thinking "Only Forever" would have any impact whatsoever. Ha! Wrong again, Lovato.

"Do you want it to be weird?" he says, eyebrows high and smile hidden away. "Because if you want, it can be weird. I could make it so weird for you- Stop laughing, I'm serious."

"You're weird enough already," and she pushes him back. He'd stepped in close and she can't stand how good he smells.

> 4: They hint at the possibility of dating

"We wouldn't work out." That's when he says it—at her party, when everyone's pretending not to look at them as the heavy breathing part of "Ruin The Friendship" kicks in. Which was his fucking idea! And it was a good idea, which makes it worse. Workshopping her song like it was legit and about some different—possibly imaginary—guy who is totally not him. The absolute nerve.

"You don't think so?" She doesn't even like gin, but she steals his right after she gets the words out, takes a swig and dares him to stop her.

His lips twitch but he otherwise doesn't say anything on the matter. They both know her relationship with sobriety is complicated. All her relationships are complicated. He keeps his place in her life by knowing when to keep his mouth shut.

Most of the time.

"You deserve someone who isn't a coward," he says, a nod to the song, an acknowledgment that he has, at some point, given it even an iota of thought. "Plus I'm too boring for you. You said so." The sound he makes when she rolls her eyes all the way back into her skull and shoves his drink into his waiting hand could count as a laugh if she's feeling generous with her definitions. But she isn't, so it isn't. It's just a noise he makes.

 

 

_Are you stalking me?_

Demi reads the message four times and finally admits she has no idea what the fuck Nick is talking about now. She says so.

What she gets back is more of what she's already heard like ten million times: _Demi Lovato and Bella Thorne Were Spotted At A Strip Club Together And We're Confused AF_. God, celebrity is a curse.

She can't be bothered defending herself—hasn't she done that enough in her young life already?—so she pivots back to whatever bee's in his bonnet. Nick's open-minded and understanding and practically perfect in every way, but sometimes he can be a real prude. _If you were performing then you really need to step your game up because I did NOT notice you._

Teasing but not too harsh, she thinks. Good balance. Totally platonic poking at his morals.

Less than a minute later her phone beeps. She has to zoom out to read the text on the shots of the screenplay because Nick doesn't always remember how close is too close.

> _OLYMPUS_
> 
> _the HEAVING CROWD parts… JACK FLASH elbows his way through… mid 20s… less greek god and more puppy dog… the scrappy sort that was left at the pound… a do-gooder with no one to do good for… until he sees_

She swipes to the next picture.

> _He turns to TARA and grabs her arm… drags her through the crowd… down a garbage-strewn alley to a side entrance… other DANCERS stand around smoking, shaking their heads. Jack's at it again._
> 
> _JACK_
> 
> _You've got five minutes and then I've gotta go back inside for my set. Convince me._

Olympus? _Other_ dancers? Set?

 _So is 'Jack Flash' your stripper name now? Isn't it supposed to be first pet + street you grew up on?_ It's the only thing she can think of to say. Puppy dog eyes? Sure, fine. But scrappy? Nick Jonas? _Scrappy?_ Somebody watched too much Kingdom.

_I'll see what I can do about getting it changed during production._

 

 

"It's with Dan Gilroy," Nick says over lunch. Is it still lunch if it's 3 p.m.? When she gives no sign of knowing who that is, he makes that dumb _how don't you know this_ boy face as he adds, "You know, the dude who did Nightcrawler?"

"Wasn't that a thriller?" That's literally all she is required to contribute to the conversation for the next hour. Not because he's a dick who wouldn't let her talk, but because he's so excited. She really doesn't mind; sometimes she gets tired of making conversation. That's fine since Nick's got a new project. He's so in love with working it should disgust her, but honestly she just thinks his enthusiasm should be studied by the CDC.

She does the studying instead as they make their way through the courses, splitting tortillas with guac and a huge salad, sampling each other's entrées ("5: You do things that feel romantic"). He's lost some more of his bulk—she vaguely recalls him saying something on the phone about slimming down for the role ("They want otter, not bear cub" "You need to spend less time in WeHo"). Not that it really matters since he still looks fine as hell.

And he's growing his hair out. It's totally unfair—she does any minor thing to her hair and it always has that weird awkward phase where all she wants to do is hide under a hat for the sixteen billion days it takes until it's normal again. _He_ keeps his head shaved like some kind of army grunt for three years and then as soon as he starts growing it out again it springs fully-formed out of a stylist's ass or something. It's ridiculous. She's wanted to touch it since Jumanji but now the urge is practically overwhelming.

"What?" He tilts the dessert menu so she can't see the back anymore, and she leans to the side like she was actually reading it. They both know she wasn't reading it, but he still gives her the out when he says, "You're really quiet. You okay?"

"I'm fine," she says, thinking about making some joke like _oxygen-deprived since you've been sucking up all the air in the room yammering_ but that sounds too mean in her head. She hates being mean to Nicky. Well, most of the time she hates being mean to him. Sometimes she can't resist. "Just trying to picture you giving someone a lap dance and failing miserably."

He raises the menu again. Fudge brownie with coconut bacon? Hell yes. "Oh, just that? Not picturing someone else giving _you_ a lap dance?"

You tell the world you're sexually fluid and suddenly everyone you ever share a limo with is fair game. "It was girls' night, that's all," she says, defending herself after all. "She just got dumped and we were both in a 'men are fucking useless except as eye candy' mood." Hooks her finger over the edge of the menu and tilts it back down towards her so Nick _has_ to look at her, but he's smirking when she says, "Present company excluded, of course."

"Of course." Nods gallantly at her. "Since I'm paying. Did she?"

"…You know, I was _this_ close to calling you a good boy," she says, and darts a hand out to ruffle his hair. It's not as soft as she remembers, but if he didn't gel the curl out of it the hostess would've carded him when he ordered a nada-colada.

 

 

Honestly, she doesn't picture Nick trying to give anyone a lap dance until like nine hours later, when she's lying in bed over-analyzing her every interaction with him. That's totally normal for her—she overthinks almost everything all the time, especially when it comes to him. Spending ten or fifteen or thirty minutes on her back in the dark thinking about way better things she could've said instead of _it was just girls' night_ is practically meditation.

> 8: When they find out you're dating someone new, they seem annoyed or protective

Had he seemed annoyed? He had not. She hadn't even said they were dating. Because they aren't. Messing around a little doesn't automatically equal serious, and Bella's already cross-country and barely returning her texts. Dating they are not.

Although he had brought it up both times… Nah. She's reaching.

And then the needle in her brain finally skips over to the next track on the LP and she stops thinking about what she could've said or how he might've reacted and starts thinking about Nick Jonas, adult entertainer.

She's seen his shows. She's—recently—seen male strippers. There isn't really such a huge distance between the two. His floor show is better, to be completely honest. It's really not so…

No.

Well…

 _You can slap my ass if you want,_ the six-foot-something part-time model in a sparkly banana hammock had whispered in her ear when he gave her a solo dance. _I promise not to tell on you._

She hated it when men slapped her ass so she'd settled for snapping his waistband, laughing when he'd let out a dramatic yelp and pouted.

Could she picture Nick doing the same thing? Grinding up on someone— _her_ —while R. Kelly pounds in the background, grinning when she— _someone_ —tucks a twenty in the strap of his thong?

No. Not really. Not that that stops her from trying.

Okay, she can maybe envision the pouting.

 

 

 _So you don't even have to learn how to work the pole?_ she texts him back one afternoon. She's between meetings and he's apparently busting his ass at booty boot camp. Gilroy wanted him to look like a not-so-old pro, apparently. What the fuck this movie is about, she does not remember, and she doesn't really care enough to ask.

_Nope, no pole._

_What's the point of any of this if no pole?_ she texts him.

_ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ _

They've been going back and forth for weeks, which is pretty standard for them. Friends talk, NBD.

But then he texts her, _TBH I'm glad no pole, this is hard enough already,_ and she gets that little zing. Friends share. They totally share. They're totally friends.

_What do you mean? It's not like you're new to choreo._

_Yeah, well, this is different. It's like… IDK. It's hard. You'd be awesome at this. I just feel like a tool._

Her brain cracks into pieces as she has three simultaneous reactions to this.

A) He thinks she'd be awesome at stripper choreography? How does she take this?

B) He feels "like a tool"? He's willing to _tell_ her he feels like a tool?

C) What exactly do they have him doing that he thinks he looks toolish?

> 9: They'll talk to you whenever they need to vent because only you understand

The article explained it wasn't just about regular grousing, it was about feeling like you were really being used as a confidant. Like they were sharing some hidden part of themselves with you. Being vulnerable. And again, that's nothing new for them. The things she's told him… a little dance insecurity barely rates notice.

Should barely rate.

Everything rates when it's him.

Shoves B and C aside in favor of faux-outrage over A. _You think I'd be awesome at it? Gee, thanks, I think. :P_ The emoji might be too much.

_You know what I mean. You're naturally sexy._

> 3: They flirt with you but never make a concrete move

It's all she can do to type, _Think of it like your golf swing. Keep working at it and someday you too could hit a sexy hole in one! But in the meantime don't stare at your feet._

_I'll be happy if I can hit par at this rate, but thanks for the words of wisdom, Bagger Vance. ;)_

Great, now she can throw her phone out the window and forget how to read. She can probably hit the ocean from here.

 

 

"What exactly do they have him doing that he thinks he looks toolish" is answered after she makes the critical mistake of asking him how Camp Rock 3: Electric Booty-loo is going and he responds with links to his latest posts on his private Insta. To be fair, she _is_ stuck in traffic on her way to the airport, she has nothing better to do than watch whatever he sends her. True, she _could_ return Bella's texts, but they're playing hot and cold and it's exhausting. Nick is… a different kind of exhausting.

Demi loves and hates Instagram—and social media in general—in equal measure. It's great to connect with people whenever the mood strikes her, and she loves that she can reach so many people at once and start conversations about things that matter. Being a celebrity can really suck at times—many times—but she'd be lying if she said she hates the attention _all_ the time. Only liars say that.

But as she watches the first vid, she decides that the internet was a mistake.

 _Luke showing me how a professional does it #MakeItRainDance #ThoseHipsDontLie_ is the worst thing she's seen all week. Not because the sight of Nicky in a dance studio getting a lap dance from a hot dude is awful, but his expression—one part embarrassed, one part impressed, pour in a generous amount of studious intensity and shake well—is too much to handle.

 _This is the worst thing I've seen all week,_ she texts him instead of leaving a comment.

_I'll tell Luke you said that, he'll be so crushed :(_

Of course she watches it another couple of times. Because she's a good friend who wants to support him in his latest creative endeavor, the way he did when he sent her notes on "Only Forever." Yup, friends!

Really, he's only paying such close attention because he's trying to figure exactly how to replicate what the guy's doing. Worka-Nick-olism strikes again. This is her conclusion as she watches the vid a fifth time. He's watching a demonstration, not receiving a service.

She's wondered about him sometimes, but it's really not her place.

Besides, she was wrong: _Do NOT try this at home #AmateurNight? #MoreLikeAmateurAfternoon_ is actually the worst thing she's seen all week. The woman in the folding chair, Alicia Something, is doing her level best not to laugh as Nick re-enacts Luke's routine. Which, being a genius, Demi figures is his choreo. And, as she suspected, he's… not terrible.

Alicia lets out a burble of laughter as he goes into a slow grind against her thigh and it's not because he's a mess, it's because it's hot. He's hot. Every one of their assorted friends who aren't ribbing him endlessly are basically saying the same thing in the comments when she bothers to scroll down. Not that anyone should be shocked, some Spock-like part of her brain says, the MV for "Close" is a thing that exists that anyone can put into their own two eyeballs for free.

"Yeah, Nicky!" hollers a guy off-screen, audible over the thumping music, and her clinical detachment poofs as Nick links his fingers behind his head and does some sort of arching motion with his back that leads into his hips and ugh. He felt like a tool? Jesus. He's wearing a thin-looking t-shirt and sweats and it kind of ruins the effect, but also kind of adds something to it. Especially the backwards ballcap keeping his hair out of his eyes.

She could always close the app and stop texting him, pretend her battery died, but like… please. Personal responsibility? Healthy choices? Her?

 _Did they tell you to leave your shirt on or are you still playing the modesty angle?_ is the best she can do after watching it a damning number of times. Friends!!

 _I didn't want to blind anyone with my pasty flesh._ As if waiting for her to stop snickering, there's a pause before he sends her a third Insta link. _Put your sunglasses on, you'll need them._

Immediately after that warning, she pushes her earbuds more snugly into her ears. Clocks the driver with his eyes on the parking lot masquerading as a highway, and wriggles down, seatbelt pulling, before she opens the third link.

 _Let's try that again #DudeWheresMyShirt #DontTellMom_ is _absolutely_ the worst thing she's seen lately, and she can't make it more than a couple of seconds in before tapping out. Not because he's so pale—he is _so_ pale, didn't he just go on vacation? What the fuck?—but because it's the kind of thing you watch at home. Alone. In the dark. _Alone._

_I'm blind. You've blinded me. I'm dictating this because I can't touch-text._

_Lol you asked._

Does this count as number six, "They frequently message you about their day, problems, or just 'cause they're bored"? She decides no. Totally doesn't count. He's right, she asked. This is on her. She is forever doing it to herself.

 

 

 _Nick Jonas is in the hospital after an on-set accident and we're dying to know what happened_ is the third result in her news feed and she'd be lying if she said she didn't feel a bolt of concern just rocket through her. Sure, it's swiftly followed by a resigned humor, very _WTF did he do now,_ but it's too late. Damage done.

"What the fuck did you do now?" she asks as soon as he picks up. She calls, of course, because she cares in a purely platonic way and she can't just show up in person and check on him. She's in New York, she's supposed to be glad-handing people into donating to charity in a couple of hours, and she's too worried to think. Which he knows. He can tell because she calls instead of texts, and she can tell _he_ can tell because he takes on that stupid stoical tone of voice that makes her just want to worry more.

"I didn't, like, swoon or anything," he leads off with even before saying _hi_ , which just confirms her worst suspicions. "I tripped over a light cable that wasn't secured properly and my leg snapped in twain. Everyone's getting fired and I'm getting a robot foot. I'm totally suing. Hi, by the way."

"Really?" In _twain?_

"No. I twisted my ankle. It was an accident. This is what insurance is for," he says. "Besides, it's your fault. If I was gonna sue anyone it would be you."

" _My_ \- This should be good." There's relief in her voice that neither of them comment on, but it's real. If he's joking then he's fine, but really that's no metric. Reticent though he is much of the time, he'd still be joking even if he weren't fine just to make her feel better. He almost went into a diabetic coma one time when they were touring together and all he did was crack wise about how that would teach him to skip second breakfast. She could've killed him for real.

"You _did_ tell me not to look at my feet." She's still sputtering when he continues, "Don't worry about making it up to me, they're springing for some massage therapist to rub the pain away."

"Next time you want a foot rub so bad, just call me," she says, "I've got my technique down and everything. I promise no tickling." She isn't sure why she says it, and she isn't sure how she says it, but they both pause. What exactly he's thinking about in response she does not know, but she's thinking about the opening scene in Pulp Fiction. _There's a sensuous thing goin' on there._

"I'll keep that in mind," he says after a pause that lasted roughly an eternity and one (1) throat-clearing on his end, and maybe they were thinking about the same thing after all. "Really though, it's not your fault. My knee gave out, I rolled my ankle, no big deal."

She sits down on her bed, worrying her lip for a moment before she says, "So you're okay." Her voice lifts a little on the end against her best effort, and he sighs.

"I'm fine. I get the rest of the day off, then back to work tomorrow." He doesn't sound annoyed or anything as he outlines how much they have left to shoot, how boring his afternoon was until she called, segues neatly into asking her about how things are on the east coast.

Before she knows it she's told him her entire itinerary and they've moved onto debating what he should watch on TV while he convalesces when someone's knocking at her door. "Shit, I'm so late," she says, grabbing things but unwilling to hang up. Not yet, not when she can keep listening to him, keep imagining him lying on a couch in California, leg propped up by a cushion as he flips through TV channels, a copy of the script laying open on his chest. "Now whose fault is it, huh?"

Soft laughter. "Guess we're even," he says, and makes no attempt to disconnect either. Because they're friends, and friends like to talk to each other.

> 2: There might not be a physical aspect, but you feel like you're in a relationship with them, and you know they feel it too

She's got a missed call from Bella but whatever, she can text her later.

 

 

"Jeez, dude, it sounds like you're cursed or something," she says as he stretches his leg after dinner, bumping her calf under the table. They're back at the vegan Mexican restaurant in WeHo, and she's been feeling giddy all night. It could be jet lag, but she flew in a few days ago so it shouldn't be that. It could be the perfect LA summer weather, but it's August on the east coast too. It could be the margaritas, but she's barely touched hers.

"Tell me about it," he says with that exasperated smile she loves, bumping her leg again, and she knows why she feels giddy. Knee to knee; she can feel the brace he's wearing, scratchy against her bare skin. Besides the ankle incident, he: tripped for real over a light cable, broke an extra's nose, and fell off a stage during filming. Three (3) separate incidents.

"Who are you, me?" she laughs after he finishes telling her how exactly that last one happened. "I'm the one who falls off stages. And onstage."

"Maybe you infected me with your clumsiness." He picks up her drink by accident, but she doesn't say anything as he sips it. Only because they're drinking the same thing for a change. "Gave me a case of the Demis," he says, setting her glass down in front of her, and he totally knew that was hers. Accident her ass.

But she remembers number three ("They flirt with you but never make a concrete move") so she doesn't put any stock in it when she says, "At least you're done." Fingers tap over the base of the glass before she turns it around slowly, until the break in the salt rim where he drank is directly facing her. Pauses. "You _are_ done filming, aren't you?"

"Yep." He runs a hand through his hair, sweeping it back after it had started to get ideas in the mugginess on the patio, but that's what happens when he doesn't bother with product. Gets a little unruly, even if it's just a few inches long.

Did they gel it for the movie? He never told her, and she's not about to ask. Doesn't even know what answer she'd want. Thinking about him in a club, stripping his clothes off for the cameras, sweating under the hot lights… Far from the first time he's done that, but thinking about it the way she is—where she is—feels dangerous somehow. Especially when he leans back in his chair, hands hooked around his neck as he cracks his back, and yeah, maybe he shed a few pounds, but he's not missing it. Not judging by those biceps. Shirt off, he'd still look-

"It's crazy, the actual filming took less time than all the pre-production shit," he says, interrupting her rapidly devolving train of thought. But even if there's a slight upward twist to his lips, it can't be because he caught her leering at him. He's obviously thinking about something else as he looks out at the rest of the dining room.

Besides, she doesn't leer. She's a good girl. She doesn't leer at her friends. And that's what they are: friends.

 

 

That's what Nicky said they were two years ago, when she'd gotten drunk at an after-show party and lost her shoes and he'd stopped her from jumping into the hotel pool in a rented dress, and then from stripping it off in an excellent display of determined drunky logic.

"Friends don't let friends skinny-dip in public," he said, corraling her back from the pool up to her room, holding her hands tight in his to keep her from ""jokingly"" feeling him up in the elevator. He'd let her go when they got to her floor, but only so he could go through her purse for the keycard to her room.

"I'm tired of being friends with you," she said, plodding past him into the unlit room, hearing him follow. "It's so boring. You never let me have any fun."

"That's so not true." Click of the door shutting, but he didn't turn the lights on, and he didn't move away from the door as she circled aimlessly in the hall, dragging her hand over the wall and wondering why she wasn't touching him instead. "We have lots of fun."

"Not the kind I want," she said, leaving off from the wall to poke him hard in the chest before she turned her attention to the zipper at the side of her dress. "I want non-friend fun. I want-"

The sound of the zipper dragging down was loud in the dark. Louder than the A/C, louder than their breathing, and it only stopped when he wrapped his hand around hers, and for a moment she thought he was going to go along with it. Give in the way she'd wanted him to for literal years, the way she knew he'd thought about. She looked at him too much to miss how he looked back sometimes.

"I don't," he said. Slid his hand under hers somehow, his fingers between hers and the zipper, and tugged it back up in a slow climb. "Let's… not. Let's do something else."

"'Let's do something else,'" she repeated mockingly, smacking his hand away and shoving him back. He stumbled against the door as she turned away, shaking her hair out of her face. "'Let's just be friends.'" Pressed a hand against her head as the room tilted. Tomorrow was going to be super great, she could already tell.

"Demi-"

"Just go away," she said, not looking at his stupid face. If she looked at his face then she'd have to look him in the eye, and she knew he'd be some combination of hurt and disappointed and she'd feel even shittier than she already did. Or was going to. "Go away, Nick," she said again, slumping down on the couch and tucking her bare feet up under her. "I'm tired. I don't want to be your friend right now, I'm too tired."

He left her purse on the couch next to her and shut the door behind him. Texted her the next morning to ask how hungover she was and lol'd when she sent him a string of pukeface emojis, and that had been that forever and ever amen.

 

 

"How's it going with Bella?" he asks instead of elaborating on what he means about pre-production taking longer than the rest of it. "You two still doing the girls' night thing?" There's only polite interest in his voice, nothing aggressive or jealous or gossipy, but then that was never him.

But he _is_ asking, so…

God, Demi's exhausted with the whole thing. Her giddiness doesn't fade exactly—maybe the innocent kind does a little, but the less innocent/more pathetic kind swells since it's Nick and he's asking if she's seeing anyone, and she's weak to any kind of attention she gets from him.

"It was never really a thing," she says, sipping her margarita, her lips on the glass where his were. "So it wasn't going." Largely because Bella accused her of having one foot out the door at all times, and Demi had asked her if she'd ever heard about backburnering, and Bella had texted her back _next time just ghost, ok?_ And that was that.

Not that she's about to lay all that out for Nick. One of two things would happen:

A) She would have to explain to him what backburnering is, or

B) She would _not_ have to explain to him what backburnering is.

She isn't sure which would be worse.

"What about you, Mr. Entertainment?" she asks, resting her chin on her hand and batting her eyelashes at him. "You meet anyone special on the Showgirls set?" Does an excellent job of pretending she's not dreading an affirmative.

He just purses his lips against a laugh and shakes his head ever-so-slightly. "Nah. Too busy working."

"But that's the best time to meet people!" she says before she lays her hand on his forearm where it's resting against the table. Firm as ever. "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll find someone to show off your new-found skills for."

Doesn't pull away as he looks down at the table, twirling the swizzle stick slowly between his fingers, but his cheeks are a little pinker when he says, "I learned choreography, Dem, not like… lap dance improv."

"That's even better because then you don't have to make anything up," she says, rubbing her thumb over his watchband. She'd wonder what the fuck she's doing, but this really isn't anything new for them, and she's too much of a dumbass to stop. "You just do your routine. Like the dancey birds in Planet Earth."

He actually snickers at that, fumbling the stick, and she wants to die at how his eyes light up.

And because she's such a great friend… "Look, if you're worried about coming off like a goof, you could always show me what you learned. I _do_ have experience with strippers, you know," she says, knocking her knee against his, smile plastered across her face.

His eyes narrow fractionally; she worries he can see right through her until his tongue darts out, pink as the shaved ice they'd had before drinks ("We haven't seen each other in forever-" "It was four months, Nicky" "-we're going all out"), and licks his bottom lip. Then she knows he can see right through her. Just like always.

_They never make a concrete move-_

"I'm not showing you here," he says.

 

 

There's a gap in her memory like she blacked out. Did they even finish their drinks? She remembers blinking, and she must've said _something_ because she comes back to her senses sitting shotgun in his car. He already parked, and he's got her door open.

"Coming?"

"Uh, yeah," she says, taking his hand and hopping out, feeling strangely disconnected from her body as she follows him up to his place. Every line of that life-ruining _Atlantic_ article is zooming through her mind at a hundred miles a second as he fumbles his keys because this is like half of them all at once. He agreed and then… shock. She's probably in shock.

"Where do you want me?" She pushes her sleeves up to her elbows, turning around uselessly in the open space of the living/dining room while he goes to the stereo off to the side.

"Just grab a chair," he says, waving a hand vaguely as he plugs in his iPhone. "Don't sit on the sofa, I didn't-" he coughs, shoulders hunched as he taps away at something. "I didn't learn with a sofa."

She nods. Nods again. So she's not hallucinating and this is actually happening. Okay. The giddiness she felt before is completely gone; it occurs to her to back out, say something about how he shouldn't bother, she was just kidding, but she doesn't say anything as she drags an armless IKEA chair away from the dining room table. No, she keeps her mouth very tightly shut. Mostly because, as he bumps the volume up incrementally, she feels like she's going to hurl.

One time she saw a post on Reddit about some woman who puked every time her crush got near her. Very shitthathappened.txt but now… infinitely more believable.

The music playing low in the background isn't anything she recognizes as he rounds the couch to stand before her, nodding his head along to the beat but otherwise not doing anything. "I did this like twice in one day two months ago and never since, I have to remember," he says, pushing up his sleeves like she did before he bends down quick to take his knee brace off and toss it behind him. The resulting clatter suggests it didn't land on the couch.

"Well, dance up on me already, Jean-Ralphio," she says, smoothing her skirt. Prays she didn't sound as flustered as she feels, and he shuffles his feet and slips off his shoes when the song ends.

The next song isn't very fast. Something rock with a strong but simple drumbeat, no electronica elements, and she can see at once why it would be good for an amateur to strip to. The cues are practically baked into the music as he steps closer, her legs between his.

It takes her a minute, but she actually recognizes his routine. Granted she never saw it from this angle, but it's seared into her memory after repeated viewings of his Insta videos, so she feels like an idiot that it takes her so long. Unlike Alicia Whoever, she doesn't laugh once, though her eyes go big and round when he drags off his shirt, necklace banging against his bare chest. Nor does she laugh when he practically sits in her lap, his bare arm brushing her hair aside as he grips the chairback, all his weight in his planted feet instead of on her thighs as he rolls his hips up against her.

She doesn't laugh during any of it. She also doesn't do anything that a friend—a 100% strictly platonic no-crush-having friend—would do, like hoot or holler or slap his ass. Jokester things that would have absolutely no emotional baggage. Instead she keeps her hands to herself, palms sweaty against her cotton skirt, and tries to figure out where to put her eyes.

This was not a problem the last time she got a lap dance. Then she just looked whereever she wanted—at the ripped male body in front of her, at a giggling Bella off to the side, at the sparkling lights. And any other normal time she had no problem looking at Nick. Happy to do it, really.

But instead of gazing into the middle distance as he remembers the choreo he spent so long learning or looking past her, pretending she's anyone else, he looks right at her the whole time. He isn't grinning like a dumbass either.

Friends don't give friends lap dances. Not when they're sober, anyway. Definitely not when they're alone together.

"Wait," she says, catching his hands when he goes to unzip his khaki shorts. At some point he was humming along to the music, which she only notices because he stops when she touches him. "I- That's great. You're fine."

He doesn't shake her off; he doesn't move at all, standing so close before her. She can hear him breathing hard. "It's part of the number," he says, and he sounds kind of odd, almost winded, so she looks up from his crotch to his face. His hands flex under hers.

"I think… you're fine. Lap dance-wise," she says, feeling just as out of breath as she looks up at his blank face and continues, "I don't think you're going to have any problems getting laid if you… do that. For someone. If they ask." She is _such_ a good friend sometimes she could literally kill herself.

Nick's still staring at her as he bites the inside of his cheek for a moment. "I think- This- I made a mistake," he says at last, pulling away, out of her lax grip.

> 1: They don't want to commit, but they don't want to not commit either

_Come close- Wait, too close! No, too far, come back where I want you,_ she remembers the article saying. Yup, she could kill herself. But she still agrees with him. Out loud even. "Yeah, this was not… Well, it was kind of weird? I shouldn't have-"

"That's not what I meant," he says, and leans down and kisses her.

It feels like it lasts at least as long as his routine did, but the song isn't over when he pulls away so she knows, logically, that it didn't last three eternities. Not even three minutes. Unless he's got the song on repeat? But-

She can't think.

"Was that part of the choreo?" she asks. All she can smell is his cologne, his sweat underneath it; it's all she can taste. That and sugar. An insane part of her mind wonders about his levels.

"No," he says, still leaning over her. Holding onto the back of her chair again like he has to brace himself even though all he's doing is standing there, and she's afraid to touch him in case he moves away. In case this is-

No.

No, it can't be a joke. Nick's a lot of things sometimes—a know-it-all, a fun-hater, quietly self-righteous, a bit of a moralizer at times—but he's never been that kind of asshole. Not on purpose. But when he kisses her again—when she lets him kiss her again—his hand feeling huge cupping her cheek, it all feels so unreal that she has to ask a second time. "Was _that_ part of the choreo?"

He's smiling as he shakes his head, "I never kissed anyone," but he isn't laughing at her which is good because if there's any confusion it's all his fault.

She hopes he realizes that. Thinks about pointing it out as he palms her thigh, fingers inching up under the hem of her skirt, before he pushes her legs apart. So unladylike.

Then he kneels down between them, a wince there and gone as he hits the floor, and she finally reaches out to him.

Stops him with a hand on his naked chest, and she's positive she's touched him before at some point in their lives but not like this. It feels like he's vibrating. "Nick." Maybe it's her. It probably is her, it's always only been her before- "Don't-"

All movement on his part stops, which is awkward because he's pulling her skirt up.

She tucks her knees tight against his ribs— _like riding a horse_ she thinks wildly—because she really doesn't want him to go anywhere as she finishes her sentence, "Don't fuck with me, Jonas." That's not precisely what she means to say, but it's close enough. _Don't do this unless you want to do it. Unless you intend to do it again. Don't do it if you want to stay just friends._ All kinds of things. Instead, she just says it again, follows up with, "I swear to god." Grips his shoulder and gives him a no bullshit shake, necklace jangling as he gazes up at her, flushed.

"I'm not."

"I'm serious."

"I know." His eyes drop in stages down from her face to her chest (heaving) to her crotch, and how many times did she imagine this?

Shifting side to side as he draws her panties down, down, flings them off to join his- Okay, she never imagined the knee brace. But his stubble rough against her inner thighs? Yes. His mouth against her, his tongue? Definitely.

Again she overthinks, makes the wrong choice, gets in her own way. Too much in her own head like usual. "Nick, do you know what backburnering is?" she asks him, hand fisted in his soft hair, hauling him up and away from her cunt where he was just getting started.

His eyes squeezed shut when she pulled his hair, which is interesting, but when her words sink in his expression turns immediately—unexpectedly—guilty. "Miley might've told me. I didn't think it really applied," he says haltingly. He doesn't break eye contact though as he kisses the top of her thigh, murmurs, "I like being your friend."

"Fuck, that's such a good line," she laughs wryly, hooking her leg over his shoulder. His Rolex is pressing against her, his calloused fingers squeezing her hips, shoved up under her dress, and to hell with it, she's not going to ask what exactly changed for him. What happened, who he talked to that resulted in him getting his head screwed on right. She'll ask later. She'll fucking grill him later.

No, for now she'll take what she can get. Like the opportunity to sink both— _both!_ —hands into his hair, curls between her fingers, and tug gently. Hear—feel—him grunt as he licks at her, and she squirms down in the chair, wanting more of his mouth.

He must not have hit repeat all on his iPhone because suddenly there's no music. The air's just full of her moaning and gasping, his occasional muffled grunts. Fabric rustling, floorboards creaking under him as he shifts his weight, grip tight on her leg as he tongues her clit until at last she pushes his face away, shaking and sweating. "If I tell you to fuck me, are you gonna say it's a bad idea? That that's not what friends do?"

"Nope." He wipes his glistening face on his bare arm, which _holy shit_ , before he makes like a gentleman and pulls her skirt down for her. "I'm gonna say we should at least move to the sofa. My knee's killing me."

Grins when she barks out a laugh, stroking his hair back. She's not going to stop touching it until she has to, or until she finds something better to touch. "Did you turn into a senior citizen all at once or were you born this way?" she says, shimmying her hips out of habit as she gets up, skirt falling down the rest of the way in a wrinkled mess, and takes his proffered hand to help him up. Calls him a geezer even as she eyes his tented shorts and thinks she'll find something better than his hair to touch in a minute.

"Whatever, you're into it," he says, pressing his face against her neck.

Which, yeah, he's right, she wrote an entire song about being into old dudes, she wrote two songs explicitly about being into _him_ , it's not new news, but then he scoops her up into his arms and it feels new. It feels like she's on a Tilt-A-Whirl, the giddiness from dinner returning in a headrush, making her dizzy, and that's the main reason she loops her arms around his neck. Not the only reason, but the main one.

"Was _that_ part of your-"

He kisses her again, holding her in the empty nowhere space between his living and dining rooms, his arms strong and steady around her back, under her ass. He's all shades of pink after, hot and trembling against her as he says, "Yeah, it was, actually, but with my luck... I didn't want to risk dropping you." There's no humor in his face when he says it, and she thinks maybe, just maybe, he's not talking about literally dropping her. Well, not only literally. "I'd hate myself."

"Just say so next time," she says, playing with the chain of his necklace as he carries her. They're apparently not going to the couch, and they're _so_ not talking about his choreo. "I've done this before, you know. I can land on my feet."

"I know," he says, and then, "You're awesome at it," and it's nothing he hasn't told her before but it's still nice to hear. Friends totally compliment each other. Then he whispers to her, "I always pictured you when I practiced," and that is not what friends say to each other at all. Especially not when they're headed for the bedroom.

She'll point that out later.


End file.
